


however do you want me, however do you need me

by moonshinelouis



Series: canon-ish [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Collars, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, Leashes, Light Bondage, Louis Tomlinson Calls Harry Styles Pet Names, M/M, Oral Sex, Restraints, Riding, Rimming, Sadism, Smut, Subspace, Tender Sex, Top/Bottom Versatile Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22828663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonshinelouis/pseuds/moonshinelouis
Summary: Louis loves Harry—he loves being his boyfriend, loves being soft and gentle with the person he cares for the most. But there must be something seriously wrong with him; why would he crave to be rough in a moment so delicate, with a person he’d never otherwise dream of hurting?
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: canon-ish [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663732
Comments: 17
Kudos: 178
Collections: PowerBottom_DomBottom





	however do you want me, however do you need me

**Author's Note:**

> this is entirely [neely](https://michael-cliffords-peacock.tumblr.com)'s fault; she was the one who showed me [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K7WvHTl_Q7I) video and i went [elmo_rise.png] and wrote a fic about internalised kink shaming because i was apprehensive about writing smut—and like lyly said, "the best way to get over it is to go straight into it huh! [nervous laughter] why do a little if you can do a lot?"—so here you go. thanks [emma](https://essercipertuttienonperse.tumblr.com/) for being such a great beta!! <3 
> 
> title from little mix's "bounce back," though for this fic i listened [this](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/716I2bpV816qab6ltexuph?si=mPnowwn_Su2M3C5EHZc1TA) playlist. 
> 
> [tumblr](https://moonshinelouis.tumblr.com/post/612881741686980608/moonshinelouis-archive-however-do-you-want-me)

It wasn’t always like this. 

In the beginning, when every time felt like a first, monumental and fragile, perfect in its wobbly first-try manner, Louis had no troubles. It all started to deteriorate (all too soon, unfortunately) as they got used to each other; as touching became second nature, as sex loss its awkwardness and instead became jocular and easy. 

Strange things turn him on, and he can’t shake them away; the images haunt his dreams and bleed as nightmares and he can’t look Harry in the eye come morning when he wakes up hard, because the guilt of being aroused by such monstrosities disgusts him. 

He—no, his mind, or subconscious, or whatever is conjuring these thoughts—dreamed of relatively agreeable things at first, but they quickly took such a dark turn that Louis doesn’t know what to do with himself: tying Harry up, not just holding him down by the wrists, but really restraining him—to the headboard, wrists plastered together, and even his ankles; collar around his neck, just to give a harsh tug, making him choke on his cock, and then kissing his puffed cheeks softly, wiping the tears away and cuddling. That is the most confusing part: these ghastly off-character fantasies of his mix violence with a plushy pastel pink sort of softness, a variety so cheesy that he and Harry hadn’t managed to reach it yet, though they were plenty cheesy boyfriends—and this, _after,_ is what Louis craves the most, like all that pain he wants to inflict is just to reach _after._

It makes no sense; it gnaws at Louis. There is no need for violence to cuddle Harry, call him pretty, comfort him—and Louis has never been a violent person; quite the opposite, yet that is all he can dream about, all he can think of when Harry asks, so eager to please, so sweet and pretty, what it is that Louis wants. The words tangle in Louis’ mouth, desperate to escape, choking him in want and lust, but he can’t say them aloud. What would Harry think? He’d be scared of Louis, who otherwise does everything in his power to look out for him, and Louis wouldn’t even blame him. He’s scared of his thoughts too.

The biggest problem, though, is how hard it’s gotten to become aroused by regular things. He loves Harry; finds him sexy as hell, and wants him badly—but he just can’t shake those thoughts away. Whenever they get intimate, the desires come back and get Louis hot like nothing else, but then he has to stop thinking about them before those filthy wishes escape his mouth, where they are safest. But they are young, and Harry would notice something is off if he suddenly turned celibate; so Louis does his best to stay present and hold off those terrible fantasies.

Later that day: Louis’ cock hits the back of Harry’s throat and his eyes close to hold off a choke. His lips, stretched raw around Louis, are berry pink as if squirted by pomegranate, its juice dripping as his saliva. When Harry opens his eyes again, red-rimmed and glazed-over, blinking lethargically, Louis has the urge to tug at his hair, harshly; to fuck his mouth, to watch him gag and drool, but Louis closes his eyes to will those thoughts away. Why can’t he be normal? His boyfriend, so hot and so sweet, is on his knees for him, sucking him off obscenely, and all he can think about is going harder and faster and rougher. He’s a bloody horrible boyfriend, so selfish.

Harry pulls off suddenly, leaving his cock pulsing from the heat of his mouth. “Is everything alright, Lou?” he asks—but of course all Louis’ fizzled mind can think about is how broken and raw his voice is, nearly gone, and exactly how much more it would need to be completely gone.

“Yeah, yeah,” he reassures. “‘S all perfect, you’re perfect.” It _is_ true. Harry _is_ perfect beyond reason, the best boyfriend, yet all Louis wants is more, more, more, and he hates himself for it.

Harry makes a tight face, as if holding off on something too, but ultimately he sighs and brings his lips back to Louis’ cock. Right before he touches him, though, he glances up at Louis and puts his hands behind his back, looking up at him again just like that—mouth stuffed, kneeling, hands-off. It’s so close, so very similar to what Louis wants that he can’t help the ragged moan he lets out. Harry smirks around his shaft and hums, pleased, and that is all Louis needs to come. 

Later that week: Harry is playing ping pong—actually, he’s doing everything _but,_ just to rile Liam up; he keeps sending the little ball so high up that it doesn’t even hit Liam’s side, and to pick it up, he sways his bum up in the air, absolutely unnecessarily. Louis is trying to read on the couch, or at least pretending to, but he doesn’t even know what the article is about anymore; Harry is very distracting. His stomach tightens with heavy guilt and his cheeks heat up; he wants to bend Harry over on that ping pong table, he’s being so _bratty,_ wants to hold his hands back and—

Louis gets up suddenly, careful to keep the magazine positioned to cover his hard-on. “I’m gonna—tea,” he stumbles, not even able to formulate a real sentence, and runs from the room as fast as he can. Why is he so _wrong?_ Harry is so sweet; he’d been laughing, dimpling, so innocently, and Louis was imagining such twisted things. Where is the correlation? He drinks a whole glass of water in one gulp, trying to wash out his thoughts and indecencies altogether. 

That night, Louis fucks Harry slow and tender, _as it should be,_ and kisses him everywhere, in silent apologies for being so weird, for having these thoughts. Harry squirms, ticklish, and his smile is so beautiful, especially when his mouth goes from a toothy grin to a broken moan, lips falling to an ‘o’ shape. 

After, when they’re sweaty and laying back in bed, Louis traces shapes on Harry’s sizzling skin as he catches his breath, all sleepy and hazy from sex and nuzzles his face into Louis’ neck. Louis plays with his hair, slightly matted with sweat but still feather-soft, slipping from his fingers. _I’m sorry. I’m trying to get better,_ he apologises, willing all his wrongs away with every brush of his fingers. 

Then, startling Louis, Harry croaks, “Lou?”

“Yeah, love?”

“I can hear you thinking,” he giggles softly, but it turns quiet and serious a second later. “What’s been bothering you?” He’s so soft; his skin, his voice, his curls. 

Louis breathes in sharply, his chest locking in guilt. “It-it’s nothing, it’s fine.”Then, just to make sure: “Nothing’s wrong.”

Harry pouts; Louis feels it against his skin, the wetness of his inner lip. “You can tell me,” he murmurs. “I wish you trusted me.” He falls asleep almost as he says it, leaving Louis even more guilty and wishing he was the boyfriend Harry deserves. 

Louis wakes up slightly ticklish, but more out of curiosity than discomfort. It’s Harry, tracing patterns on his skin, loops and lines, so assiduously and sleepy that he misses Louis awaking—therefore allowing him to look for a moment, just appreciate his gorgeous boyfriend, the person he loves the most. When Harry notices his gaze, he blushes and hides in the crook of Louis’ neck, with a smile so wide Louis knows he’s dimpling. Louis laughs, not because it’s funny but because he’s so in love and so happy, bursting at the seams with it. 

“Morning, love,” he says, shifting so that he’s on top, and kisses Harry down his chest, soft presses of his lips that leave no marks except for warm pools of love on his ribs, on his belly, on his pelvis—before finally he makes his way back up and kisses all over Harry’s face as he giggles, and at last he kisses his lips. 

“Morning,” Harry maunders, voice rough from disuse and breathy from laughter. Then his lips curve into an empty smile. “About last night...” he whispers, glum, as if not knowing physically pains him.

“It—”

“Please don’t brush it off,” he chews on his lip, dry and chapped from sleep but still so beautiful. “If it’s been bothering you, I want to know, I want to help.” 

Louis blushes, fixing his fringe to hide his cheeks behind his hand for a second, to compose himself a little. “It’s just—I love you so much, Harry, I don’t know why I—” he clamps up, he can’t look Harry in the eye.

“Just tell me, it’s okay,” he kisses Louis’ collarbone, stretching his neck to reach his chest. 

“I’m kind of a freak, Harry,” he whispers, and halfway through he hides his face Harry’s hair, holding tears in his fist tightened around the duvet. “I want weird things. During, um, sex.”

“You… What?” Louis doesn’t want to emerge from hiding, but he wants to know if Harry’s disgusted. If he’s ruined what they have.

He's not—Harry’s blushing violently, all the way to his neck, and he’s certainly a little shocked, but definitely not repulsed. Whereas Louis is scarlet with embarrassment. “I want—I dunno—I wanna tie you up, I wanna make you gag on my cock, I wanna get so rough with you, I don’t know why, I don’t—” Harry shushes him with a touch to his arm. 

“You—you can do that,” he gulps. “If we go slow, one thing at a time, we could try that. I trust you.” 

There are a million things Louis’ heard, filthy things from Harry’s own mouth, things from porn, things from movies, but none could ever compare to how turned on _I trust you_ makes him now. He nearly growls.

“Do you—You want that? Please don’t do anything just because I want to.”

Harry smiles. “I want to.”

“Okay,” Louis whispers. “If you’re sure.”

“I am. Now if you could please _do_ something—” he humps up just a touch, just to bring attention to his hard cock. 

Louis grinds down, smirking, buzzing with nerves and desperately trying to think of something palpable for today, what he wants and what Harry would enjoy as well. “I want to sit on your face,” he says. “That alright?” Harry’s eyes droop in response, glazing over, and he nods. “Can I—” he sighs, just thinking about it, “Can I hold you down? Your wrists?” Harry nods again. “Just—if it gets too much, if you want to stop,” he racks his brain for a way to get his attention when Harry will be so vulnerable. “Um, close your mouth? Will that work?” He’ll feel the absence of his lips’ wetness.

“Yeah, yeah, please just—” Harry’s already breathless. 

“Harry,” Louis says, stern. He needs Harry’s full attention; he’s so restless. “I need you to promise me you’ll do that if you need to.”

Harry stops writhing almost immediately, and Louis almost sighs; he’s so perfect, so pliant. Harry’s lips don’t even close, it’s like he has no control over his lust right now—it makes Louis feel less guilty, as Harry’s enjoying it too. 

“Yes, sir,” Harry breathes—and Louis stops breathing altogether. 

“Fuck, that’s so hot, you’re so hot.” He can’t help but lean back down and kiss Harry till he’s writhing and giggling and begging, too. 

“Please, please, please,” he pleads, breathless, pink, and soft.

“Please what?” Louis teases, licking his face just to rile Harry up. 

Harry lets out a gorgeous, distraught groan. “I dunno, whatever you want, please.” Then, more quietly but just as delirious: “Please, sir.”

Louis wonders if someday he won’t be affected by being called that, if it’ll lose its effect—he thinks not; it’s tied tightly to Harry’s broken voice, begging to be used, and that certainly will never get boring. “I love it when you call me sir,” he admits softly, though Harry’s probably already figured that out from his reactions. Harry smirks; he can probably tell that that will get him whatever he wants, too. He impatiently licks his lips and strains in Louis’ hold. 

“Eager, are we,” Louis says as he climbs over Harry’s chest and makes himself comfortable on his tongue, but it comes out broken and breathless halfway through when Louis’ skin touches his warm mouth. “Fuck,” he moans. 

Harry licks his rim, kitten flicks of his tongue before he swipes his entire tongue over it and bites—delicately, just scratching his teeth around it, and Louis clenches around his tongue. 

_“Fuck,_ Harry,” he sighs. Then, “I need—can you hold your hands in place, love? Don’t move them. Wanna ride your face,” he explains, gripping Harry’s hair. He takes a minute to appreciate the view: Harry, lying underneath him, completely trusting, completely pliant; lips cherry red and spit-slick, plump and ruined; hands over his head, one holding the other, so acquiescent that Louis sees stars. “Fuck, I love you so much,” he whispers, breathless, completely blown away by his gorgeous boy. 

Harry smiles dopily; he looks a little out of it, but in a good way—sex-hazy. “You can pull my hair,” he says, and yeah—his voice is definitely distant. “I like it.” _That_ they had discovered already, accidentally, and it’s one of the things that feeds into Louis’ fantasies the most. 

Louis has to close his eyes for a second; Harry is so perfect, he makes him crazy. “Yeah,” he pants. “Don’t move your hands unless it’s to tell me to stop, yeah?” Harry nods, but he’s sort of gone, and Louis wants him to really understand; wants him to be safe. “Can you use your words for me, love?”

Harry inhales sharply, pleased, flushed. “Yes, sir, won’t move my hands. Unless I wanna stop.”

“Good boy,” Louis says, mostly to himself, but Harry reacts so beautifully—he takes a deep breath, as if drinking in the compliment, and he smiles so hard he has to bite his lip to contain it a little. “You like that?” Louis beams. “Being my good boy?”

 _“Yes,_ yes, yes,” he exhales. “Love it.” Louis’ stomach churns with butterflies, happy that Harry wants this too.

“Yeah?” he says, and the fondness is palpable in his voice. He’s stupidly in love. He sits back on Harry’s waiting tongue, hot and wet in his arse. Harry tries to be in control, licking into him again, but Louis takes him by the hair and locks him where he wants him, where it’s best for him to fuck himself on his tongue. Whenever he tugs at his hair, Harry moans, and it vibrates deliciously through his body, making Louis bite his lip harshly and let out tiny, breathless, succinct moans, “Uh, uh, uh.” After the third time or so Louis seriously thinks Harry’s moving just to get his hair pulled.

But he needs more, needs to _come,_ so he says, “Fuck, need your cock, Harry,” and opens himself up quickly—a little _too_ quickly, but it’s okay; he’s desperate—and he makes Harry watch, but doesn’t let him touch, just to tease.

He finally sinks onto Harry’s cock, slowly, and gets used to the stretch before he picks up a rhythm, achingly slow for Harry, according to the restless noises he’s making and how he keeps trying to hump into Louis and move his hands, put them on his waist for support. Louis bats them away a couple of times before he just holds them down, and it’s worth it for Harry’s frustrated sigh. 

“That okay?” he asks, just to make sure. 

“Yeah—it makes me crazy, but I love it,” he pants. 

“Good,” Louis says, and it comes out half-sighed because he finds his prostate. “Fuck.” He picks up a faster pace, but then Harry tries to thrust up, and it’s probably to help Louis, but it feels like he’s losing control. “Harry,” he says, as stern as he can with a cock pressing his spot, voice high and breathless, “Don’t move.” 

Harry obeys, stopping instantly, and again makes a frustrated, helpless groan. 

“Good boy,” Louis praises—and at that, Harry’s lips unstick, bouncing just a fraction, parting slightly around a whimper, and he comes, Louis following right after. 

Sex with Harry has always felt great—far greater than any time he’d tried so hard to make it work with a girl—but there had always been something missing, something to truly quench his thirst. Not this time—he crashes right with Harry, sated and knackered and blissful. 

Harry is still pliant and droopy, but he’s okay; he’s a little more clingy than usual, wanting a cuddle even though they’re both overheating, but Louis loves comforting Harry—he loves him—so he cuddles him, kisses him, whispers how much he loves him and how well he did until Harry falls asleep with a happy smile. 

Louis wakes up energetic, which hardly ever happens, but he doesn’t wake Harry up, a little guilty that he’d tired him so much even though they had discussed it and Harry was into it; he just can’t help but feel weird. There’s nothing else to do, and he doesn’t want to get out of bed this early, so he picks up his laptop, mind hazily set on googling something specific but still too shy and uncomfortable to go straight to it. So he wanders: he orders a new phone charger (it’s red, and ten feet long; a necessary length when you move around so much and don’t always get a plug three feet away from the bed), new silicone wheels for his skateboard (glow-in-the-dark, even though he’s never skateboarded in the dark and can’t think of a situation in which he would), and an array of old vintage shirts before he runs out of pastimes.

With trembling hands, he types what has been in the back of his mind the whole time, the thing he actually wants. He’s seen enough ‘sexy policeman-and-criminal’ cosplays in party stores to know handcuffs for sexual activities exist, though he cringes at the thought of such roleplay, and he wishes there was something less harsh than cold, hard metal or plastic—he loves Harry, he doesn’t want to fuck up his pretty wrists. He goes on an incognito tab, like a teenager searching for porn, and finds that actually, most handcuffs are made of leather—and that there’s much more to ‘bondage’ than just handcuffs. There are harnesses, belts, and masks, all of which reek of _too much_ at the moment—but there are collars and leashes, too, which make his stomach curl in desire, picturing Harry’s pretty pale neck contrasting against smooth black leather, tugging at a leash, how his cherry lips would drop open into a breathless sigh. 

There are some scary things too: floggers and whips and paddles with cut-outs of initials or hearts. He’s not that into this stuff; it’s too much, too soon, and he closes that tab. He ends up bookmarking only a pretty collar-and-leash set offered in various colours (his personal favourites are red and black, but the baby pink _does_ make it much less intimidating...) with a pretty bow on the front, metal details in gold, inside lining of some soft-looking fabric. His face is burning and his cock is half-hard in interest, just from imagining, and Harry shifts beside him in bed and Louis snaps the laptop closed in tremulous embarrassment.

Harry laughs. “Did I startle you? Are you looking up something dirty?” he grins, eyes still closed and skin warm from sleep; he pulls the duvet tighter over his neck to keep the heat in. 

Louis takes too long to register that he’s only _joking,_ that he has no idea what he’s looking up, and ends up outing himself with his terse, “Uh,” and rabbiting heartbeat.

Harry blushes and opens his eyes. “Oh,” he gasps. “What, uh, what’re you looking up?” he curls himself around Louis, half-sitting, chin resting on his shoulder. 

Louis’ face is on fire; it’s uncomfortable and he’s sweating, but this is _Harry,_ and it’s not like he bought the stuff. He was just looking. He didn’t even like it all. “I was just looking somethings up and—” he gulps— “these came up, but I was just looking, we don’t have to get them if you don’t want to, I was just curious, and apparently it’s not as uncommon—”

“Louis,” Harry giggles, kissing his neck. “It’s okay, just show me.”

“Okay,” he says, but his heart says something more along the lines of _ahh, run_ with the way it’s beating out of control. “I was just looking for, like, handcuffs, since, uh—” he's desperately hoping Harry will miraculously understand, saving him of admitting it aloud. 

Harry’s cheeks are shiny and rosy, and knowing that he’s just as affected helps Louis not freak out, strangely enough—perhaps it’s knowing that if _he_ acts calm and collected, taking care of Harry, then he’ll calm down, too. 

“Yeah, um, what did you find?” he asks, licking his lips more out of nerves than anything else, but it still has Louis tracking the motion with his gentle obsession.

“There are some really soft ones, with like, outside leather and inside fur or something similar, it’s very nice—and there are loads of colours, like pastel stuff, if you don’t want red or black; those seem kind of intimidating, I guess, and, well, I want it to be soft and comfortable for you?” He doesn’t know why he finishes it off like a question. He’s just nervous. He gets his password wrong _thrice_ before he inhales deeply and types it really slowly, key-by-key, and he and Harry both pretend they don’t see his fingers quiver.

“Oh, that shade of pink is pretty,” Harry says quietly, pointing at a pair of ballet-pink cuffs with two D-rings each.

Louis smiles, looking at Harry, watching his cheeks pinken. “Yeah? Those were my favourite, too.”

Harry turns to look at him, probably because Louis’ voice is fond to a criminal level. “Did you find anything else, too? Or just handcuffs?” 

“I, uh, actually—” 

Harry kisses his cheek. “Stop being so embarrassed. Show me; I’m into it, too.”

If Louis’ face was on fire before, now it’s a furnace, constant and scalding hot. “Um, I found, like, a collar in the same fashion,” leather outside, fluffy inside. He doesn’t want to talk about the accompanying leash aloud; he just opens the tab and trains his eyes on the keyboard. Harry doesn’t reply; Louis only knows he sees it because he feels him let out a breath against his collarbone. 

“Oh,” he finally breathes. “It’s very pretty,” he whispers, almost in awe. 

“Yeah? Would you—do you want it?”

Harry’s touching his neck, he realises. Feeling his throat, probably imagining what if would feel like, the pull and the push and the leather, the restraint against his throat, eyes frozen on the screen. “I’d love it,” he mutters a second later, eyes glossy. 

Louis feels like a cartoon character with pink orbs with red vertical lines on his cheeks as he marks that product, and he knows Harry can see the third tab open on his laptop, but he really doesn’t want to talk about it; doesn’t want to scare Harry off. 

“Um—this, I—only if you’re interested, I just ended up on the page sort of by accident, I wanted to—and—I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Please don’t let me.” Harry nods, and he clicks on the tab. He feels Harry take a sharp breath beside him. 

They just look at the screen for what feels like an eternity, before Harry pants, “Oh… I really want that,” so quietly, so delicately, that Louis nearly misses it over the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he says, hand putting a little more pressure on his throat, just to feel it out. This moment is all Harry’s—not something Louis asked him to do, nothing; this is _his_ moment discovering himself. “I want it.”

Louis notices his other hand in his lap and its slight trepidation, and cradles it in his hand, brushing his tense fingers down to kiss his knuckles. “We can go slow,” he whispers, breath dampening in-between Harry’s knuckles, forming pools of heat. “As slow as you want.”

When he looks back up, Harry’s already looking at him with stars in his eyes and a surprised little smile—like he’s not even aware that he’s smiling, just enjoying this moment. “I love you,” he says, and it’s really like he’s not even aware that he’s saying it aloud. He sounds like stars, distant yet so effervescent that they’re close enough to feel its energy and its heat. 

Louis blushes. “I love you too. I’m glad you don’t hate me for all this,” he says, pushing the computer off to the nightstand. 

Harry laughs, bordering on a giggle, at that. They haven’t changed much. Louis had been scared that those urges had been signs that he’s a violent person, that he’d hurt Harry, but they worked it out. They’ll be alright. 

“I would never hate you,” Harry smiles, as if the very idea is ridiculously unthinkable. “And, well—I don’t think I’d, well—I think eventually I’d naturally gravitate towards it, you know? I like it a lot,” he blushes. “So don’t worry.”

“What exactly do you like?” Louis asks softly, still tracing patterns on Harry’s palm. 

“I like…” he looks up to think, reminiscing greek sculptures, deep in thought in their curly-headed minds. “I like it when you pull my hair. And, um, the restraining. It feels good.”

Louis beams, so happy that Harry likes it too. So in love. “I like that too.”

“What do you really like? Besides that?”

Louis stays quiet for a moment, thinking (and getting a little hot about it in the meantime).“It really turns me on when you call me sir,” he admits, blushing so hard that his cheeks overheat uncomfortably.

“I love calling you sir,” Harry replies with a cheeky, cherubic smile. “And I like it when you call me pet names, not just in bed.”

Louis nods. “Okay. And you don’t want, like, degrading names, do you? Like, um, slut, and things.”

Harry frowns a little and pouts, probably subconsciously, and he looks so upset by the mere idea, like it physically pains him, and not in a good way. “No, I don’t think so.”

Louis exhales in relief. “Good, I don’t think I would’ve been able to pull that off, to be honest.”

Harry giggles in reply. 

With scarves, Louis learns how to tie Harry’s wrists together so that he’s comfortable, but also that blindfolding Harry is really hot. It makes him completely vulnerable to Louis, which is already a massive turn-on, how much he trusts him—and also augments Harry’s reactions, makes every touch worth a gasp, every word worth a moan. 

The first time they try it, Louis doesn’t leave him alone for more than a few seconds, but gradually they works so that Harry isn’t scared anymore, because he knows and trusts that Louis will always be there for him. But it’s not like he ever _actually_ leaves: he just falls silent, likes to watch Harry tremble and squirm in anticipation, just waiting for Louis’ instructions or praise or touch. 

By now they’re so confident in each other that Louis asks Harry, out of nowhere, to do the trust test with him. The other boys are all watching, a little startled that he brought it up so randomly, but Harry only blinks a few times, as if processing what he asked, and nods. 

Harry doesn’t hesitate: when Louis says “I’m ready,” he lets go, not squirming one bit on the fall to Louis’ arm. It’s hot.

Louis takes him back to bed, so turned on by Harry’s trust, and kisses him everywhere, anywhere, sighing, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” and tracing the words on his belly with his finger, just to tease, just to watch Harry’s stomach flutter and his hands clench, trying not to move like Louis asked. “I love how much you trust me,” he mutters and bites Harry’s earlobe. “Love how obedient you are, love your eyes.” 

Harry giggles. “What do those even have in common?”

“Nothing,” Louis shrugs, smiling. “Apart from being parts of you that I love.” Harry smiles, blissed, glowing. “Going to blindfold you, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” he says quietly, and Louis bites his bottom lip to not moan or kiss Harry all over again. 

“Good boy. On your belly for me, please.” He turns to their dresser and chooses an opaque écharpe, navy blue and small enough that there won’t be too much cloth left over to get in their way. Harry watches him choose it, Louis can feel his eyes on him—but he’s being good, laying still with his hands clasped behind his back. He looks pretty like this, looks like he’s all Louis’, and that makes Louis’ stomach swirl happily. 

“You look so gorgeous for me, love. You always do,” he murmurs, sitting on the bed beside Harry, who preens at the compliment. “Ready?” Harry nods. Louis covers Harry’s pretty green eyes with the écharpe, bringing the ends together, carefully brushing his hair away so it doesn’t get tangled in the knot and pulled unpleasantly. “Is this good?” he asks, tugging a little on it so Harry can feel how tight it is—not that much; enough so it won’t slip but Louis can still fit two fingers snugly between the cloth. 

“Yes, it’s good,” Harry sighs. He’s already starting to get a little distant, as he often does when they do this. 

“Good. And what’s your word?” They decided to use a word not otherwise brought up in sex to alert the other if they want to stop.

Harry smiles like he’s drunk in love. “Kiwi.”

“Good. Use it, alright?” He gets up to fetch lube and condoms, and he makes sure to be quiet so that Harry has to look for him, strain his hearing and pay attention to all the little sounds he makes—the creaking of the floorboards, the drawer opening and closing, the package of the condom crinkling in Louis’ palm. He knows the teasing gets Harry hot and bothered; makes him let out little moans even though Louis hasn’t even touched him yet. The anticipation, not knowing what’s going to happen, riles him up. 

But at last, it’s Louis who can’t resist: Harry, waiting impatiently for him, writhing in bed… It’s too much. He takes his time appreciating his body, kissing the curves of his hips and lubing up his fingers and pressing against Harry's rim; takes his time inserting finger after finger into him, observing his body flutter and twist around his fingers and the pretty noises he makes. He stops when Harry begins beginning nonsense, fucking back into Louis’ fingers.

“Shh, love, stay still,” Louis whispers in his ear, rutting his cock teasingly over Harry’s asscrack and planting sweet kisses all over his back. He brushes his cock against Harry's rim, observing, amusedly, as Harry spasms around nothing. Still, Harry does not move, as requested. Louis smirks, delirious in love. 

He kisses behind Harry's ear, prompting a whimper from Harry. “How do you want it, baby? Slow?” He almost trembles to say the next words, but this is Harry, and he has to know. “Or, uh, hard?”

"Whatever you'd like" Harry sighs, gripping the duvet as to keep himself from rocking back into Louis. "Anything."

Louis grins, nuzzling the nape of Harry’s neck, the sweaty hair there, and kissing his broad back as he pushes into him, slow and careful. He waits for Harry's small nod before moving back, teasingly unhurried, and waits for Harry's pleased, soft sigh before slamming back into him, over and over, hands soft and thumbs caressing his waist, but keeping him locked against the bed. 

He’s obsessed with how Harry’s his, all his, and how he’s just lying there and taking it because he trusts Louis to take care of him. He’s obsessed with his whimpers, with his sweat, and especially with his hands, clasping tightly onto one another behind his back. Louis’ thrusts become more erratic the closer he gets to coming, but he puts extra effort in making sure Harry’s taken care of before he does. 

Louis can feel it when Harry comes: the air stills around him, around his open mouth and the soft moans that escape his throat; around his hands, fisted so tightly his knuckles are white—he clenches, taking Louis right with him, and then he relaxes and goes pliant and sleepy. 

He takes a while to come back to his senses. It worries Louis a bit, but he figures that if he acts all nervous, then Harry would freak out with him, and he wants him to relax. He decides to just take the blindfold off him and whisper, “Harry, baby, please come back,” and kiss him until he stirs.

“Water,” is the first thing Harry asks for.

“Yeah, of course, baby, here you go,” he uncaps a water bottle and helps Harry sit up, as he’s a little wobbly. 

He’s still trying to contain his nerves when Harry finally puts the bottle down, empty, and starts laughing. 

“What,” he asks, smiling, so relieved to see his love fine. “What is it?”

“You fucked me into oblivion, did you?” he wheezes, barely able to enunciate, barely able to touch his lips together with his laughing. 

“Oh, fuck,” Louis says, breathy with laughter, and he hugs Harry, hides his smile in his neck, where he’s sweaty and hot. “I’m so glad you’re okay, though. Didn’t know what happened for a while.” His heart pounds in his chest, and the epinephrine, going down, makes his limbs weak. “So glad you're alright.”

“I love you,” Harry whispers—and Louis has literally just fucked him senseless, but a simple whispered _I love you_ has his cheeks warming like a schoolboy’s. 

He takes Harry’s hand in both of his, cradling his warm, lithe palm, and kisses it. “I love you.” 

The box arrives on a Saturday evening when Harry is out. Louis doesn’t open it, but the name of the store is printed on the shipping label, right underneath his name. 

He doesn’t want to publicly embarrass Harry, so he doesn’t send a text. He’s also unsure of what to say. _Hey babe, our sex stuff is here._ It’s just weird and he’s nervous. He spends the day glancing at the cardboard package sitting on their dining table, averting his eyes a second later when his cheeks pinken. When Harry texts saying he’ll bring him dinner, he doesn’t even reply, too flustered to even think of a response other than _the box is here and it’s killing me;_ not anything remotely related to Indian food. 

By late evening he’s found comfort in staring at the telly unblinkingly, some forgettable rerun of _Friends_ that he’s watched a million times with Harry, and snacking on all sorts of things he finds in their kitchen without any real fulfilment. He jerks when the door’s lock catches and a second later clunks against the frame—it's Harry, trying to open the door without unlocking the upper lock because he always forgets about it.

Louis gets it open for him, too agitated to just sit and wait, and they look at each other, paralysed for a second before they burst into laughter. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, honestly; they’re just glad to see each other.

“What if I was a burglar?” Harry asks and kisses him on the cheek before turning to toe-off his shoes. 

Louis leans against the wall, loved-up smirk surely plastered on his lips, and shrugs. He decides to go for cheesy with, “Well, you’ve already stolen my heart, so…” 

Harry snickers in response, following with an aggrieved, “Heeey, puns are my thing,” pout and all. 

“Well, you always do the same thing when opening the door. I knew it was you.”

Harry blushes; Louis can see the warmth spread through his cheeks even though he ducks his head. “You recognise the way I open the door?”

“Well, yeah.”

Harry scrunches his nose, fond, before the bag in his hand crinkles, making itself known. “Oh,” he laughs, “I have food.”

“How many samosas did you get?” They’re Louis’ favourite. 

“Like ten just for you,” he sighs, heading into the kitchen presumably for a tablecloth.

“Do you think that’ll be enough?” Louis calls, going to clear the table—take that box away. He just pushes it under the table and to the side; out of sight, out of mind. 

In theory. Louis keeps kicking the box throughout dinner, subsequently stuttering through whatever he’d been saying and blushing all the way down to his neck, for which he blames the spice. 

After, when they’re doing dishes and bumping hips, Harry asks quietly, “What’s wrong, Lou? You’re acting a bit strange.”

Louis sighs, rubbing the plate in his hands harsher than needed. “Our stuff is here,” he says. “The, uhm, the things we bought online.”

“Oh,” Harry squeaks. “And you’re nervous about it?”

Louis blushes. “Well, yeah.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Why?” he giggles. “I told you,” he knocks his hip against Louis’. “I’m into it.”

“I dunno, I really don’t.”

“Well, stop it.”

“Can we just use those two today?” Harry asks, pointing at the collar and matching leash. 

“Of course, love. As slow as you want,” he puts the handcuffs and blindfold away, just throws them into an empty drawer to deal with later. “Okay,” he inhales. “Are you ready?” Is _he?_

“Yeah,” Harry promises. 

“Good. Can you get on my knees for me, darling?” 

“Yes, sir,” Harry says, knowing the effects of those words on Louis. He kneels and settles his hands behind his back, looking up at Louis in a way that makes him lick his lips in desire, in love. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” Louis can’t help but sigh. “I’m going to collar you, and then fuck your mouth. Sounds good?” Harry nods. “Okay. Pinch my thigh if you want to stop, alright?”

Louis goes around Harry and crouches behind him, collar in hand, and places it around his neck. He plants a kiss on Harry's shoulder before pulling the ends together. “Is this good?”

Harry moves his neck in a circle, trying it out. “Yes, sir. I’m comfortable.”

“Okay,” Louis clasps it closed and gets up, only to crouch back in front of Harry a second later. He attaches the leash to the front D-ring, and he’s struck again by the way Harry is his. He’s on his knees, hands behind his back, at Louis’ mercy, all Louis’, all-trusting. It’s heavenly. “God, you look beautiful like this,” Louis breathes. “You look like you’re mine.”

Harry smiles, and his eyes are already dark and glassy. “All yours,” he says, smiling dopily. “All yours.”

Louis smiles, brushing his finger around Harry’s plump lips, reddened from all his licking and biting already. Just thinking about how ruined they’ll look makes his head spin. “You have very pretty lips,” he states, swallowing. “I’m gonna use them now.” He pulls his thumb down Harry’s chin, pulling his bottom lip down—he looks up at Louis with droopy eyes, just waiting, beautiful and pliant. 

He unzips his jeans and only needs a few strokes to harden properly; just watching Harry had gotten him hot. He pulls on the leash experimentally, only for Harry to gasp prettily and look up at Louis through his lashes. “Fuck,” Louis whispers, mostly to himself. Harry is always breathtaking, but like this—he’s irresistible. Yet he teases, because teasing always leaves Harry a whimpering, crimson mess, so eager and so turned on for Louis. He brushes the tip of his cock against Harry’s plump lips, watching in fascination as they redden and swell a little and as his eyes get darker and shinier and droopier. 

Harry tries to move his head and wrap his lips around his shaft, but Louis likes to make him wait for it, wait until he’s begging nonsense and to be used—waits until he stops trying, acquiescing to Louis at last. With his throat servile, just hanging open slightly, Louis lets him have his cock—he experiments pulling Harry slowly by his leash, feeling his throat relax around him before pulling in inch-by-inch until he's touching the back of his throat and Harry’s breathing laboriously by his crotch, pretty lips stretched thin. Louis releases the pull on the leash and Harry looks up at him, again rather obscenely, through his lashes and with his eyes watering a little, his hands still clasped behind his back. He splutters and pulls away, but he’s back before Louis can even ask if he’s alright—so Louis weaves his fingers through Harry’s warm curls, caressing his scalp and simultaneously tugging, creating a rhythm and using Harry to his pleasure before he becomes more desperate and needs more; at which point he lets go of the leash and threads both hands into Harry’s hair, to keep his head in place and fuck his throat. 

When he pulls out minutes later, there’s come and saliva dripping down Harry’s chin, down his neck and dripping onto the carpet, but he looks so _gorgeous,_ pliant and soft and glowing happily, smiling rather deliriously and blinking soporifically. “You look like you’re all mine,” Louis repeats then, ecstatic, kissing patterns down Harry’s chest before picking him up altogether and laying him on the bed to kiss him more comfortably. 

And again Harry repeats through a thick smile, “I’m all yours,” but this time his voice is almost completely gone, hoarse and ruined all because of Louis, and the power sizzles in Louis’ belly merrily. 

“I love you,” Louis says before wrapping his lips around Harry’s cock, pressing his hips down onto the bed and smirking when his hands find his hair, but it’s not to control him as Louis had done; it’s for more begging, as his voice is all throaty and powerless; it’s to have something to do with his hands as he struggles and whimpers and then comes.

“All yours,” he says a fourth time, shortly before falling asleep and after a glass of water for his throat, but the thick raspiness of his voice still has Louis thirsty for more, for forever. 

**Author's Note:**

> pls [reblog](https://moonshinelouis.tumblr.com/post/612881741686980608/moonshinelouis-archive-however-do-you-want-me) the fic post & leave kudos and comments if you liked :)


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